Of Honeysuckles and Memories
by TheFederalist
Summary: Hamilton remembers Philip. One-shot.


**This story is protected by U.S. copyright law.**

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**JUNE 1804**

Little Philip let out an excited squeal as he ran around the garden, an expression of pure delight on his face. His father, seated near him on the ivory bench, watched on with an amused smile, sipping his tea with a lightness he hadn't felt in years. One could tell just by looking at him that he was completely and utterly at peace – his eyes were patient and soft; the worry lines that had so often governed his features no longer existed; and his shoulders sagged in a blissful release of tension known only to him.

The boy came to a stop beneath one of the many tree bowers, bright in the summer sun and laden with blossoms. Stretching on his toes, he reached up in an attempt to pick one of the flowers off the tree. But the child was much too small and his arms much too short. Unsuccessful, he plopped down on the grass with a frustrated sigh.

Hamilton laughed, a rich, joyous sound that rang like a bell throughout the garden. Setting his cup down, he rose from the bench to join the little boy in standing beneath the bower. "Oh, Phil," he murmured, scooping his son into his arms.

"Flower," Phil whined, pointing at the tree with a short, chubby finger.

Hamilton laughed again. Balancing the child carefully with one arm, he reached with his other toward the branch that Phil had so earnestly pointed to. Pulling at it with a gentle tug, he lifted the flower off the branch and handed it to the boy.

A gummy grin stretched Phil's face, and he took the flower with gusto, twirling it in his little hands and examining it as though it were a mysterious object. The flower was bright pink, almost magenta, with thin, tubular petals and a waxy interior suitable for drawing insects to nectar. The corners of Hamilton's mouth lifted into a gentle smile as he realized what it was.

"Honeysuckle," he said aloud. Phil looked up at the sound of his voice and eyed him curiously.

He felt the peculiar need to elaborate, even though the child was two and would have no idea what he was saying. "Your brother loved those. They were his favorite plant in the garden."

As if sensing a story, Phil ceased to fiddle with his newfound toy and fixed wide, attentive eyes on his father. And so Hamilton continued:

"Every morning, while we were all asleep, he would sneak out of the house and find something special to surprise us with. Sometimes it was a pile of autumnal leaves, other days it was a fresh pair of apples from the orchard, and on rare occasions he even managed to trap some fireflies in a jar. We never knew what we would find; we would just wake up and it was there on our bedside table.

"One morning, your Mama and I woke to an amazing scent. It was extraordinary – invigorating and calming all at once. We wanted to know what the source of it was, so we went looking around the house. That was when we found it: a fresh bouquet of honeysuckles on Mama's vanity.

"Days passed, and we soon learned that he had grown to become quite fond of the flowers, for we would find them everywhere in the house, from the kitchen to the windows to the dining room table. We all became accustomed to the smell, and not a day went by where we didn't find them in our room before we went to bed."

Hamilton's smile suddenly turned melancholy, and his eyes misted. Shaking his head as if to will away his tears, he continued on, his voice trembling ever so slightly:

"We never imagined that the honeysuckles would stop coming. The ones on Mama's vanity, the ones he left us…the day they wilted was the day he…"

He trailed off then, unable to go on. Passing a hand over his face to brush away the tears, he glanced down at his son.

Phil was watching him intently, his little hands clasped around the stem of the honeysuckle, looking impossibly understanding with his limpid chocolate orbs and small smile. Hamilton sighed and ran a hand through the boy's unruly curls.

"But the ones we love never truly leave us, do they?" he asked softly. "They are with us every step we take, every breath of air we swallow. They live on in honeysuckles, or apples, or piles of leaves. But most importantly, they are in people's hearts."

At this last, he laid his palm gently over Phil's chest as if to demonstrate his point. Phil, upon seeing his hand, took it and immediately began to play with his thumb.

"I want you to know something, Philip. It is our duty to uphold the legacies of those who have died before us. And one day, after you've lived a long and joyous life, one day when you're old and gray and surrounded by your wife and children, they will uphold yours as well."

Conveniently, at that moment, Eliza called her husband and youngest son in for dinner. Hamilton smiled at the sound of his wife's sweet voice, and carried Phil, still clutching the honeysuckle with purpose, back into the house on his shoulder.


End file.
